


I'm Right Here, Honey...

by Caffiend



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Body Shaming, Dom Tom Hiddleston, F/M, Overcoming insecurities, Protective Tom Hiddleston, Semi-Public Sex, Tom Hiddleston Broadway, Tom Hiddleston Is A Sweetheart, body images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiend/pseuds/Caffiend
Summary: In which Tom wants you to attend an important Broadway event and support him, and you just can't stand the thought of being there with The Beautiful PeopleFor 18+ ONLY  Depictions of semi-public sex. With Tom Hiddleston. Excuse me, my brain is leaking out of my ears.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston - Reader, Tom Hiddleston - You - Relationship
Comments: 64
Kudos: 131





	I'm Right Here, Honey...

**Author's Note:**

> This is from a Tumblr request...
> 
> "How about a Tom Hiddleston x reader: walking hand in hand with her new boyfriend Tom would melt her heart unless of her stupid insecurities... Never being good enough - she was plain, not that smart and sometimes feeling so out of place in his company...Did she deserve him? And with Tom on Broadway her ghosts haunted her constantly in her lonesome..." I hope you enjoy!

  
“I’m sorry, darling, but I really wanted you to say yes, this time.”

That voice. You could never resist it. The sonorous, low tone meant only for you. He used it sometimes during interviews, knowing perfectly well that you were listening. Knowing that your thighs were pressed tightly together and his girl was stifling a moan at the sound of him. The promise of him whispering into your ear later when he was thrusting viciously up into you.

“It’s … I know,” you said, forcing a smile, “but you’ll be fine without me and I have tons of work to go through for the trial on Friday.”

This earned you a frown. “Why, pray tell are you doing all the casework?” He squeezed your hand a little too tightly, held in his gigantic one. You looked down at his fingers, wrapped firmly around yours, his poor, sore red knuckles prominent.

“Your hands…” you mourned. “All that stage door autograph time is going cripple your hand! You’ll be lucky to be able to text by the time this run is finished.”

Tom, as always, tried to make you laugh. “Good. You can wait on me, hand and foot. I’ll be in traction, each individual finger encased in…”

Daringly, you went on tiptoe to shut him up, kissing him fiercely and enjoying the little groan he made. It was such a stupidly, almost surreal feeling of power when you made this man - this A-list star moan when you put your mouth on his. His beard tickled you as you ran your tongue lightly along the thin lines of his lips. “Shhh…” you whispered against his mouth, “no lecturing me until you can take a break, too.”

But it was the same regret. “Darling, I- I wish you’d come with me! You know I have to go, and I want you there, by my side. I want to show off my beautiful girl. I want them all to know how lucky I am.” 

You hated it when he looked at you like this, disappointment warring with hope. Like, this time you’d say yes, ‘Yes, Tom, of course, I’ll support you. Of course, I’ll be there.” But the thought of having to sit with those women who looked like stick insects - those people in the industry that would stare at you with polite incredulity when you were with Tom, or simply pretend you didn’t exist if he wasn’t - it was a nightmare. And Tom had to work- these industry things were _always_ work. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” you attempted, tilting to look in his eyes that were staring over your left shoulder. “But you’ll be so busy - those ceremonies are always crazy - and when you get home, we can celebrate?” He still wasn’t looking down at you, and your heart clenched a little. “Tom … sweetie. Please? I hate those things. They make me feel like crap.”

Now he looked down at you, and your sweet, patient boyfriend had checked out. This was Angry Tom. “Has it ever occurred to you that _I need_ you there? That I’d like your support?” 

He stepped away a little, running his hands restlessly through those long curls. God, you loved those curls, twining them around your finger as you both read on the couch, or grabbing them with both hands when he was feasting on you, and… What was wrong with you? Thinking about sex like some frat boy when your Tom was upset? “I guess … I just never thought about it, I guess,” you said lamely, “I mean, there’s nothing for me to do but sit there, and you’re so good at schmoozing.”

Tom stopped pacing and chuckled. “Schmoozing?”

“Well, yeah,” you teased, relieved he wasn’t upset anymore, “you are King Schmoozer. The Monarch of Mingling, His Highness of Hobnobbing, the-” And then his big hands were cradling your face, kissing you hungrily and the issue was settled.

You thought so, anyway. Tom made love to you after nearly throwing you over his shoulder if you hadn’t stopped him, shrieking about breaking his back right before the matinee performance. But he didn’t call you after the evening show like he always did, and you finished the case files you’d dragged home and went to bed. Alone. 

Odd, you thought, staring up at the shadows on your bedroom ceiling. You’d always liked being alone, gloated in getting your own place in Manhattan without having to dig up a roommate. But … tonight? The bed was too big. The sheets were too cool. The pillows didn’t feel right. The ache between your legs and higher up in your pelvis reminded you of where Tom had been inside you that day. Maybe that’s why it all felt so empty now.

Just the fact that you’d ever met Tom Hiddleston, Movie Star, Pop Culture Icon, Saint Tom of UNICEF, and current Broadway Darling was because your law firm represented him here in the states. You were just a paralegal and nearly knocked him on his ass, bustling to your office with a giant pile of paperwork. You’d apologized profusely, he’d laughed it off and after asking your name, told you he’d forgive you if he could take you out to dinner. He was joking, clearly, as if the stunned and disbelieving expressions of your co-workers didn’t make it obvious. You laughed it off and went on your way. But he was back the next day, a huge smile and a bouquet of pink, flirty-looking peonies in hand. 

“Tonight, darling?”

“What- seriously?” You were flabbergasted. You were wearing some baggy-ass cardigan because there were no court appearances that day and your glasses instead of your contacts.

A single, elegant brow rose. “And why would that be so difficult to believe? Do I appear in any way insincere?”

“Well, no,” you were floundering, “but, I mean… You date movie stars and si-” _Oh, shit,_ you thought, _do not say the Swift word!_ “I’m a paralegal, you know that, right?”

“I do,” he was still smiling that grin of his, that mischievous smirk that spelled trouble. “Kenneth told me that you proofed out my contract for Betrayal, thank you very much. So, there is yet another reason to take you to dinner.”

Really, the man was relentless, and on the third day when he burst out with “Luck Be a Lady” from _Guys and Dolls_ , you said yes just to get him to stop singing before one of the senior partners walked out into the hallway to see what the fuss was about.

He was barely through the first month of rehearsals for _Betrayal_ before you were together nearly every day. You loved Bobby, his feckless puppy, the walks through Central Park and oh, god did you love the sex. Tom was insatiable in bed and relentless in his pursuit of your orgasm. Several, in fact. He’d kiss your hand over the restaurant table, just slightly biting your knuckles and you couldn’t even make it to dessert. 

In fact, you were so happy and beginning to believe you were quite certain you loved him that it felt like a punch in the chest to hear two of the junior attorneys talking about you in the break room.

“How can he put up with those thighs in bed?” giggled one. “Can you imagine how all that flesh ripples when he’s going at her?”

“Please,” scoffed the other voice - Carolyn in the firm’s entertainment tax division, you were sure - “How is he even getting it up? I mean-” They both shut up as they left the room, coffee mugs in hand as you stood, frozen in place.

After that, it was everywhere. Other runners staring at the two of you when you circled the little pond in Central Park. The waitress with a slight snicker when she seated you. And worst, a blind item in Just Jared that mentioned: “A certain tall actor who was making a splash on Broadway and his tubby galpal...” That one, Tom caught you crying over and soothed and comforted you.

“Lovely,” he crooned, kissing your wet cheeks, “bastards, all of them. You ignore those sanctimonious gobshites.”

Your head was lowered, you knew your eyes were swollen and puffy, you were not a pretty crier. “They said I was your ‘tubby galpal?’ How are your fans going to handle this, and the play’s just about to debut, and-“

“To hell with those poxy sons of bitches!” He interrupted, lifting your chin with two fingers. “They don’t know us, darling. Do you think I would be aroused by some mess of bone and gristle? When I have your luscious ass to squeeze?” Then, he’d made you believe him as he kissed down your neck, your breasts and then bit and licked all those soft, secret places until you were weakly trying to push him away.

But you thought you’d come to an agreement - you’d be there, waiting for him at home when he returned from all these flashy events. But he only texted you the next day, citing extra rehearsal time, and then only a short, sleepy conversation the next night.

“Are you ready for the ceremony tomorrow?” _Betrayal’s_ run on Broadway was coming to a close, Tom needing to start filming for the Loki series in Atlanta.

A short sigh. “Yes, I suppose.” His usual, resonant voice was flat. “It’ll be fine, darling. Look, I should get to bed. I’ll ring you after the show.”

“Okay…” your voice was small. “Tom? I-”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” you sighed, “never mind. Get some sleep, okay?”

You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation the next day, the distance between you. Tom didn’t even sound angry, just … resigned, and it made you feel terrible. What if he really did need you for moral support? But wasn’t what his team was for? Luke? His stateside personal assistants? He was always so damned confident at these things, his perfect stance for the cameras. He had this one pose, oh god! Legs spread, hands held together, a slight smile on his face that screamed, “I know you want to fuck me.” But how much of it was usual, gregarious Tom and how much was an act?

“Aw, damnit,” you said despondently. “I’m going to have to suck this up, aren’t I?”

Tom’s stylist had made the mistake just once of sending over a rack of glittery, tight dresses when he was trying to convince you to join him for a Marvel party. Just looking at them had made you send over a firm denial. But there was a really pretty green dress - an emerald hue - you’d seen in a thrift store window last week that you’d thought was gorgeous. It was still there. And it fit, nipping in at your waist and flaring out generously in the skirt. If there was one thing you could do, it was dance, and you and Tom moved together so well. This dress would flow with you, you could tell. No fancy updos, you struggled with getting the cat’s-eye liner just right but when you were finished, you thought you looked pretty good. Until … you thought of all those people again. Those bony women and those _looks._

“He needs you there,” you lectured your reflection. “Stop being such a whiny little bitch and get moving.” You weren’t ashamed to stop first at your fridge and gulp a good third of the Chardonnay right from the bottle. 

Dana, your favorite of Tom’s assistants, was delighted to fetch you and bring you to the Plaza, where the ceremony was taking place. “Everyone already knows who got nominated,” she confided, “but it’s always a big buildup with the Tony Awards.”

“Best Newcomer,” you marveled, “I’m so proud of him.”

“Tom hasn’t won yet!” she laughed, “But I wouldn’t be surprised. Tonight’s just a chance to kiss up to some of the bigwigs and give a few interviews about how humbled they are, blah blah blah.”

Yes, Dara was definitely your favorite.

The ballroom was flashy and wildly overdecorated, as were the women. Men in stupidly expensive suits and everyone looking over the shoulder of the person they were talking to, looking for someone more important and successful to latch on to. Your heart was ready to burst through the snug bodice of your gown, and you took a settling breath, looking for Tom. It was usually pretty simple - he’d be the tall, gorgeous creature towering over most of those clustered around him. He was telling a story as you approached him, you could tell by his wildly moving arms and animated expression.

“And then my girlfriend said, ‘you realize Bobby just rolled in a dead, gooshy duck corpse, right?’” The little group howled at his look of horror as Tom shuddered elaborately.

“It took us three baths and finally giving up and calling in reinforcements from a groomer to get all the … ugh, the innards out of his fur, right honey?” You’d slipped your hand in his big, warm one by then and when you dared look up, Tom was beaming at you - his beautiful, sculpted face alight with pleasure. 

“And here she is, my clever girl. Darling, allow me to introduce…”

You nodded and smiled, keeping a death grip on his fingers that curled around yours reassuringly. You focused on the conversation, memorizing names, and ignored the looks. Ignored the low buzz that started when you’d taken Tom Hiddleston’s hand and leaned against him. The buzz that grew a little louder when he leaned down to kiss you lingeringly. “I can’t believe you came,” he whispered fondly, those beautiful eyes alight for you.

“You said you needed me here,” you murmured, “I got your back.”

It was less than one drink and an abandoned plate of hors d’oeuvres later - something you viewed with regret because really, those little lobster wontons were to die for - when you were dragged none too subtly out into the hall and then into a side garden, where you found yourself pushed up against the wall. “Do you have any idea,” Tom growled as he attacked your neck, nipping at the thin skin, “of how bloody beautiful you are right now?”

“Um…” It’s not that you weren’t clear that you were being mauled by your gorgeous boyfriend in a private spot that could suddenly become public if anyone else managed to find a way into the garden, but it was hard to care. “Oh, god Tom! This isn’t such a good-” 

He’d taken your dangling earring in his teeth and given it a sharp tug, knowing how sensitive your ears were. “And next,” he growled, “I’m going to take one of your pert little nipples between my teeth and pull, you do so enjoy that, my dirty little girl. Seeing my teeth marks on your spectacular tits the next morning? Those finger-shaped bruises on your lush ass?”

“Oh, god,” you groaned, “you want to kill me, don’t you!” 

“Only _la petite mort,”_ Tom grinned in a filthy, unrepentant way and his hands slid down your hips, one covering the globe of your ass and squeezing it and the other pushing up your skirt. “I do intend to insist on at least two or three before we leave this garden.”

Your eyes opened comically wide. “Tom! Omigod are you nuts? Honey, not here!”

“Oh, yes,” he mumbled, mouth busy sucking red marks into the swell of your breasts, “right here.” And then two of his long, nimble fingers were working their way past your undies and up inside of you, groaning at the feel of your clutching them. “Already so sweet and wet for me? Positively juicy,” Tom hissed, knowing the raspy, guttural tone was sending a fresh wave of slick over your center. “There is nothing, _nothing,”_ he emphasized, shoving his swollen crotch against you, “as erotic and delicious - god, positively filthy as this little cunt. I own, this, don’t I?”

It was unfair, you thought dimly, Tom, with his “I was educated at Cambridge” perfectly enunciated British accent spouting dirty talk. He knew what he was doing to you! “Yes,” he soothed the sharp bite he’d made on your shoulder, “this perfect, tender cunt is mine. And now I’m going to split it right-” The head of his cock was suddenly at your entrance and you bit down on his expensive jacket as he shoved it upwards, “-in half. I’m going to fuck you until you soak my cock. So if you don’t wish us to be caught, you’d better get to work, lovely.”

“I hate you,” you moaned helplessly, feeling your back jolt against the ivy-covered wall and vaguely being grateful that your dress was green so the stains wouldn’t be so obvious from how you were rubbing against it. “This is too much, Tom, honey, I, oh, GOD!” Your teeth really sank into his shoulder as you tried to muffle the scream coming out of nowhere as your channel gripped his cock, which was really hammering up into you, one of his knees rising to balance your ass so one hand was on your hip and the other greedily pushing down the top of your dress to pluck and lick your nipples.

“There’s one,” he chuckled cruelly, and set to work again. You were almost painfully aware of everything - the faint sound of downtown traffic, the music from the ballroom, the rustle of the ivy as he pushed and pulled you against it. His cock and thighs were wet from you and digging one heeled foot into his ass, you came again as you felt it tighten as he thrust upwards. “Oh, the prettiest, most delectable girl here tonight, aren’t you, darling? Wouldn’t they all be shocked to see my sweet, shy girl fucking my balls dry out here in the garden? Hmmm?”

You managed to shut him up by sliding your hand to the back of his neck and gripping that thick fall of curls there, pulling his head back and sucking on his adam’s apple. “Time to come, Tommy. I’m soaking your pants, and everyone’s going to know what you did to me. Every man and woman in that ballroom will smell my come on you. Yours dripping out of me…” You laughed breathlessly as his groan turned into a growl and he shoved upwards - hard - with those agile hips and impaled you brutally, coming and coming until everything below your waist felt like it was on fire.

“Good morning.”

Tom’s beautiful voice held that edge of smugness he could never quite contain after a night of strenuous fucking, and your hand reached out, blindly searching for a cup of coffee you could smell. “Wha- time is it?” you mumbled into the pillow.

“Time for you to drag that juicy arse of yours out of bed before I fuck it,” was his unsympathetic answer. You groaned, but just in case he was serious, you began making weak, paddling motions toward the edge of the mattress. Placing the mug in your hand and holding it until he was certain you were steady, Tom’s long arm went around your waist, gently helping you upwards. 

“I’m going to be walking bowlegged for the next week and it’s 100% your fault,” you accused him as you limped into the kitchen.

“I certainly hope so.” Unrepentant bastard.

As Tom ran down to the corner to grab some bagels, you blearily watched two alarmingly cheerful anchors chat about the Tony nominations last night on his gigantic TV.

“...and Tom Hiddleston, a given as a nominee for his spectacular, haunting performance in Betrayal was accompanied by his girlfriend last night, a coming out of sorts for the couple…” There was a picture of the two of you and you just died. It was clearly taken as you returned to the ballroom. His arm was protectively around your waist and your heads were close together, bantering with each other. And there were a couple of ivy leaves stuck in your hair. “It seems clear,” the male lead chuckled, “these two are quite the adventurous couple.”

You were simply writhing with embarrassment, but when you paused the show and looked at the photo, you found yourself smiling. You were both painfully, obviously in disarray, but there was a conspirational air between you and grins you just couldn’t wipe off. You both looked happy. You looked like you were right where you should be. Next to Tom.


End file.
